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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28517937">In Hearts at Peace, Under an English Heaven</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynismyqueen/pseuds/eowynismyqueen'>eowynismyqueen</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>1917 (Movie 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Family Feels, First fic please don't hurt me, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, The Hobbit References, The Lord of the Rings References, William Schofield Needs a Hug, World War II, look at how much trauma can fit into this bad boy, post canon but I didn't fix it, slaps Schofield</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 20:02:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,010</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28517937</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/eowynismyqueen/pseuds/eowynismyqueen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Will Schofield discovers Tolkien, and war comes full circle</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>William Schofield &amp; His Children, William Schofield/William Schofield's Wife</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. the hell where youth and laughter go</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title from the poem "The Soldier" by Rupert Brooke which you should all go read because it gives me a lot of feelings. </p><p> </p><p>This fic is dedicated to the wonderful C, for without who this never would’ve been written, FSW (1921-41), JRR Tolkien, and all of the artists and writers of the lost generation who never came home</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which there are mending wounds </p><p>Chapter title from the poem “Suicide in the Trenches” by Siegfried Sassoon</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Autumn 1937</strong>
</p><p>It’s September again. The middle to be exact, nearing, but not quite closing in on the end of the golden, hazy days of summer and the beginning of the crisp, dreary days of autumn. Will dreads the autumn every year, because autumn brings winter and winter brings nothing but a hollow emptiness. Winter means endings, and the passing of another year, and the nights that last just a little too long, the nightmares finding their way into the empty space and waking him up sweating in a tangle of sheets and blankets. Autumn may bring endings, but it also brings beginnings, in the form of his middle daughter’s birthday. She’s a full twenty three years old now, and soon to be married. Where had all the time gone? It seems to him that just a few short years ago, she was small enough to barely reach his knee, and now here she is, old enough to start a family of her own. Twenty three, older than so many boys in the war had even gotten to be.</p><p>She wasn’t the last of course, there were others after her, another daughter and lastly a son, but out of his four wonderful children, but Flora has always secretly been his favorite. Flora, his second born, quieter than her older sister and younger siblings, her nose always hidden inside a book, hiding away from the outside world.</p><p>That’s why he’s standing here now, in front of the cozy little bookstore on the edge of town. The day is bright and warm, but a crisp, winter scented wind is blowing through the tops of the trees, making them shiver. He’s not exactly sure what he’s looking for as he pushes open the door of the shop, listening to the cheery ring of the bell above the door. It has to be something nice though, maybe even something that she can pass on to her own children one day. He smiles at the thought, thinking about his own childhood copy of <em>Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens</em>, given to him by his mother, and that he had passed on to Flora. Will browses the shelves for a while, losing himself in the quiet darkness of the store. He picks up and replaces what seems to be thousands of books, but none of them were right. This book had to be <em>perfect.</em></p><p>“Can I help you, sir?” comes a voice from behind him. He turns to look at the source of the voice, a young man with messy blond hair and a kind smile.</p><p><em>Tom</em>. No, not Tom. You’re home, it’s 1937, September 25th to be exact, and Tom Blake’s been dead for twenty years, he tells himself, turning it over and over again in his mind until it’s solidified itself as the truth. “Are you alright? You looked like you were going to pass out for a bit there,” says the young man.</p><p>(the <em>boy</em>)</p><p>“I’m fine,” says Will, and the young man starts to walk away, back to the front of the store, or wherever bookstore clerks go in the meantime. Will pauses for a breath before continuing.</p><p>“Actually, you could help me.” The clerk stops, and begins to move back to where Will’s standing, running his fingers over the colorful spines. “I’m looking for a book for my daughter’s birthday but none of these seem right. Maybe you could suggest something?”</p><p>“How old is she? That’ll give me a better idea of what to look for.”</p><p>“Turning twenty three tonight, and married in January,” he says. “Every year that passes seems to go by faster, and I don’t know where the time goes anymore.”</p><p>“I know what you mean,” says the clerk. “I think I know just the thing. Wait here, I’ll be right back.”</p><p><em>But that’s just the problem, </em>Will thinks.<em> He doesn’t know</em>. Doesn’t know how it feels to be living on borrowed time, every day alive one taken from the thousands of boys who left France in a pine box, or the ones that never left at all, bodies scattered here and there among the shattered countryside of death and decay. Doesn’t know how many times you wake in the dead of night from dreams where the person you love is dying in your arms on a warm spring afternoon that smells like cherry blossoms. Doesn’t know the exact number of marks tallied into a journal that you keep locked away under your bed, away from prying eyes.</p><p>The number is nineteen, one for each boy from home that he trained with who never made it back, and coincidentally, one for each year of Tom’s life. Tom is the sixteenth, every little bit of him now nothing but a black mark on blue lines. His smile, his laugh, his seemingly endless inventory of raunchy jokes, and the way his eyes would light up at a letter from his mother, or at a rare piece of chocolate. Will could make lists until Hell wasn’t a place on Earth called the Somme, and he would still never be able to recall all of the parts that made up Tom Blake, no matter how much he tried.</p><p>(there’s a certain hollow darkness inside of him, a place where some of the most precious memories have gone to over the years, but he can’t seem make them come back, no matter how hard he begs and pleads)</p><p>Nineteen black lines on paper, and nineteen thousand more in his head for all of the ones that he never could save, all of the ones that would forever remain nameless ghosts. He’s just about to give up and go home empty handed when the young clerk comes back from behind the counter, holding a slim book in his soft poet’s hands.</p><p>“Here, I’m sorry it took so long, but maybe that means it’s time for a cleaning here,” he says with a chuckle.</p><p>“No need to apologize,” says Will.</p><p>“I’m just glad you could find something.” Will takes the book from him, feeling its slightly heavy weight in his hands. The cover is an ordinary blue and green, with a drawing of a white mountain almost obscuring the title.<em> The Hobbit</em>, it reads in big, bold lettering, written by one J.R.R. Tolkien.</p><p><em>Tolkien,</em> he muses. <em>Sounds German.</em> There’s been a lot of talk about Germany lately among the more politically minded, and even the possibility of another war, whispered within some circles. Will tries to push it out of his mind, but those thoughts still come creeping back occasionally, when he finds himself reading the latest news or listening to it on the radio.</p><p>“It just came out last week, so when you asked for something different, it was the first thing I thought of. I hope your daughter enjoys it,” says the young man. “I haven’t read the whole thing yet of course, but I’ve read the first couple chapters and it’s definitely different. Reminds me of the fairytales I used to read as a child.”</p><p><em>Still a child. Couldn’t be any more than twenty</em>, Will thinks. “I hope she enjoys it too,” he says. “But my Flora will read practically anything she can get her hands on, so she’ll be excited anyway.”</p><p>The clerk steps behind the counter again, and Will pays for the book, pulling a wrinkled pound note out of his wallet and giving it to the man.</p><p>“One more thing before I go; do you happen to have a pen?” Will asks.</p><p>“Yes” replies the man, before pulling a pen out of his pocket and handing it to him.</p><p>Will takes it, and after a brief pause, scribbles a note in the front of the book, before handing back the pen and thanking him.</p><p>“Come again soon,” says the young clerk.</p><p>“I’ll keep that in mind.” </p><p>***</p><p>It’s a quick walk back home from the store, past ancient chestnut trees whose leaves are just starting to turn, and whose branches he had often played in as a child. Past the neighbor’s houses, basking in the warm, early autumn sunlight, and finally to home, his feet perfectly fitting in the hollows of the stone path leading up to the door.</p><p>The house is warm and cozy, and smells like fresh baked goods. A cake sits on the worn kitchen table, covered in little candy roses. Roses for Flora, born in the dying throes of summer, but whose blooms had been her namesake.</p><p>The table is a magnificent old thing, passed down through four generations of the Schofield family, its worn knots and scratches holding a countless number of Will’s memories. It had been here at this table that he had bid his mother farewell for the last time before leaving for war, and it had been here at this table that she had welcomed him back, gathering her only son into her warm and loving arms. His heart aches as he remembers her soft touch, the one that he would never feel again after the Spanish Flu had taken her mere months later.</p><p>And it is here at this table that his two youngest children sit now, both looking at him with identical mischievous grins. Flora is missing, and so is her elder sister Maud, but seventeen year old Clara and fourteen year old Jack both here, two sets of sharp young elbows propped up on the table.</p><p>“Don’t look at me like that,” he says. “You both know there’s no cake until after supper.” They’re also both too old to pull this sort of stunt, but his two youngest have clearly inherited their mother’s stubbornness. That did not come from his side of the family, no matter how much his wife and children insist otherwise.</p><p>Clara sighs exaggeratedly at that, blowing her dark hair off her face in the process. Jack says nothing, but Will can see him snickering behind a hand held to his mouth.</p><p>“Speaking of which, where’s your sister?” he asks his children.</p><p>“In the garden,” replies Jack, and Will walks out the door and around the back of the little house, book tucked under his arm. He hasn’t even bothered to wrap it, but he doesn’t think that Flora will care.</p><p>She sits on a wooden bench beside the small pond at the very edge of the garden, book in her lap. He sits down next to her, running his fingers along the hand carved words on the back of the bench, before pulling <em>The Hobbit</em> out from underneath his coat.</p><p>The engraving reads; <em>William Schofield &amp; Anna Marlowe: 1912</em>, in his own tight, curling script. He had made the bench for her as a wedding gift, and when they had purchased the house soon after, they had decided to place it in the garden, and there it still stood.</p><p>“I got you a little something for your birthday Flora,” he says, causing her to look up from her own book. (It’s <em>The Maltese Falcon</em>, he later notices)</p><p>“Oh, Dad you didn’t have to,” she says, taking the book from him and holding it close to her. “Of course I had to,” Will tells her. “I wasn’t not going to get anything for my daughter on her birthday. Now open it, I wrote you something there.”</p><p>Flora does, her eyes scanning the note he’d scribbled inside the cover.</p><p>It reads:</p><p>
  <em>For Flora Schofield on the occasion of her twenty third birthday September 25th 1937, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I will always love you, my little dreamer of fairy tales, and I hope that this book serves you well in all of the years to come, and that you might read it to your own children someday, as I used to read to you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Love, Dad</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. drove to this tumult in the clouds</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which there is war, but there is also love, and home </p><p>Chapter title from the poem "An Irish Airman foresees his Death" by William Butler Yeats</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Summer 1942</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He blinks, and five years have passed. He blinks, and there’s a grey streak in his hair, one that he never thought he would grow old enough to see. He blinks, and the flames of war are engulfing Europe once again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His daughters are all grown now with children of their own, even dear Clara, who had become a mother the year before to a bright eyed little boy named Thomas. Will had begged her to choose any other name, one that didn’t carry the weight of the long dead, forever young, but she had dug in her heels and resisted every single one of his efforts, until he was finally forced to give in. Out of all his children, Clara is the one who takes  most after his beloved Anna though, all stubbornness and fire. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s not Clara who hurts his heart the most though, it’s not Flora, who works endless shifts at the hospital, taking temperatures and bandaging limbs, or even Maud, who dons a man’s clothes down at the canals, shipping coal and munitions all around the country to the places that need it most. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No, the child who has lodged a dagger in his heart so deep that Will doesn’t know if it will ever come out, is his only son, all of nineteen years old. There are times where he can’t even bear to look at Jack, the cheeky smile and snorted laugh a painful reminder of all those that he had loved and lost. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(And Tom, who had burned just a little too bright for the world in all of its bloody cruelty) </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knows he should be proud of his only son, one of the thousands and thousands of boys putting their lives on the line in the face of  Hitler, and the greatest threat the world has ever seen. At least that’s what all the neighbors tell him now, their words reaching his ears needle sharp. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(Late nights at the pub, sitting across from old Mr. Massey. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You should be proud of that kid, Will. Them fly boys do good work. I always knew your Jack had it in ‘im.”)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Will doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want that. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He doesn’t want their hollow words about what a good lad his son is. He doesn’t want their pats on the back. He wants Jack </span>
  <em>
    <span>home,</span>
  </em>
  <span>far away from the bombs and the fire and the blood and the fear. Home, in their little village of friends. Or maybe somewhere ever further away, somewhere where the war can’t wrap its grasping hands around them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>War is a greedy thing, always wanting more, more, more, no matter how many young boys it devours, no matter how many lives it cuts short, and families it tears apart. He remembers Mrs. Blake then, and the way that she had collapsed in his arms as he’d told her the news of Joseph Blake’s death, a mere three days before the armistice. She’d known about Tom already, but telegrams are slow, and wasn’t it better for her to hear the news from him, instead of a stiff backed stranger? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your son was a good man, ma’am,” Will had told her on that damp, cold November morning. “He was hit trying to save a wounded companion, who survived thanks to Lieutenant Blake’s bravery.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Neither of them had survived the hour, but Will didn’t have the heart to tell her. Sometimes it was better not to know the truth, just to cause a little less pain in a woman whose son’s lives will always be summarized in a collection of past tenses. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And now there’s Mrs. Warwick next door, who calls to him over the low stone wall between them, her two small children clinging to her skirt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How’s Jack? Such a handsome young man, he takes after you in every way it seems. You should be very proud of him.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I am,” Will says, smiling and nodding through the motions like a child’s puppet on a string. “And so are Anna and the girls. He’s doing very well.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The girls. </span>
  </em>
  <span>That reminds him it’s the second Saturday of the month once again, Flora’s one day off, where she comes home to visit her parents.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(what used to be parents and brother)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> But now there’s an empty place at the table, and inside Will’s heart as well. He tries to fill it with weekly letters to his son, oh so far away, but it never seems to be enough, the letters he receives in return a quick and messy scribble on paper. He lingers on each one as they arrive, taking in every nuance in the slanting letters, and the way the </span>
  <em>
    <span>your loving son, Jack Schofield, </span>
  </em>
  <span>is always crammed at the bottom of the page as if in an afterthought. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will’s jolted out of his thoughts by a gentle hand on his shoulder. It’s Flora, almost unrecognizable these days out of her white nurse’s uniform, light hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders. There are bags under her eyes, as if she hasn’t been sleeping, and she’s holding her four year old daughter by one hand and a book in the other. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hi Dad, Mum said that you were in the living room, but you weren’t there, so I decided to try coming out back and I guess I was right,” she says. “Robert’s working overtime at the factory again, so I had to bring Nell with me. I hope you don’t mind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, honey, of course I don’t mind. I hardly get to see Nell as it is,” Will says before bending down to look the little girl in the eye and smiling softly. “Hi Nell, have you been missing me since Christmas?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She nods, before letting herself be swept up into Will’s arms, giggling and squealing. Nell is warm and solid against him, still just small enough to be picked up by her grandfather, and he kisses her gently on the top of her head. Her hair is ink black like her father’s, but the thickness and the waves are all Schofield. He moves her onto his hip, a familiar gesture that he’s repeated hundreds of times before, and he holds her close. Her touch is a comfort, a reminder that even amid the carnage of a country in wartime, there are still hints of goodness, of </span>
  <em>
    <span>peace. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes time for the action of holding a child to become as automatic to him as loading and firing a rifle once had, and for the weight to not feel like Tom’s, a moment that still plays over and over in his head, although less and less as the years go by. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(he dreads the day where he can no longer remember Tom’s face, for memories are becoming ever more difficult to hold onto these days, evaporating like summer dew)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As if reaching into those memories, Flora holds out the book to him. It’s worn and tattered with the years, and it takes him a moment before he recognizes it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Hobbit, </span>
  </em>
  <span>a birthday gift from five years before, when the world was younger and kinder.“I know it seems strange given how young she is, but I was wondering if maybe you’d want to read a little to Nell while I talk to Mum for a bit,” she says. “I don’t think I ever properly thanked you for it, but it’s definitely become a favorite of mine. I think you’ll like it too.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How about that? Do you want me to read you a story, Nellie? It’s your Mummy’s favorite,” Will asks the girl, taking the book from Flora. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I like stories,” she says, showing him a gap toothed grin. She’s a real doll that one, clearly taking after her mother. He hopes that this pattern doesn’t continue with his other children, because God help him if Clara’s son is anything like her, a holy terror on everyone who knows her, and a source of constant exasperation for both him and Anna over the years. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anna’s in the kitchen making bread when he walks in with Flora, still holding Nell, not wanting to admit the soreness in his arms. If she wants to be held, then that’s what he’ll do. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Grandma!” cries Nell, wriggling her way out of Will’s arms to embrace Anna. “I missed you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And I missed you too,” says his wife, smoothing the girl’s hair as Will makes his way over to her to place a quick kiss on her lips. Anna, a light in these dark days, who even though she’s older and softer now, and has laugh lines around the corner of her mouth, is still as beautiful as the day he married her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Go with Grandpa Will now,” says Flora to Nell. “I’ll be here.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The little girl follows Will to the living room, which is lined with sagging shelves full of books, and has a large window set into one wall, open to let in the warmth of the day. A large, red armchair sits in the corner of the room, and it’s there that he sinks down into now, pulling Nell into his lap and opening the book. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His dedication is still there, although a little smudged and faded with time. He flips past it and to the first page. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Chapter one. An unexpected party,” he reads. “In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit…”</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This got a bit out of hand, so be prepared to expect a third and possibly fourth part :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. but the old man would not so</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which there is grief</p><p>Chapter title from the poem "The Parable of the Old Man and the Young" by Wilfred Owen</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sooooo this chapter is almost 1k longer than the last one, and I have no idea how that happened. This story was supposed to be one chapter</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Winter 1943</b>
</p><p>They’re eating supper when the telegram arrives, on a cold, dreary, wet, night in January. The meal isn’t much, just the same old potatoes and suspiciously grey canned meat that his wife had found shoved into a corner of the larder. The radio plays cheerily in the living room, the faint sounds of Glenn Miller drifting into the kitchen where he and Anna sit. </p><p> </p><p>It’s been six months since he and Nell sat together in that room, losing themselves in the adventures of the hobbit and his dwarven companions; two months since they’d reached the middle, his raven haired granddaughter  crowing with enthusiasm when Bilbo had saved the dwarves from the spiders in Mirkwood, and a week since the two of them had finished the book, tears forming in both sets of eyes. He tells himself it’s just because their adventure has come to an end, but there’s a burning <em> ache </em>inside his chest, something that he can’t quite place,  turning his heart into melting wax held to a flame. </p><p> </p><p>Anna eats as enthusiastically as ever, but Will picks at his food. It’s not that he doesn’t like her cooking; he does, he really does. (He in fact slightly envíes her ability to turn the slop inside of the cans into something edible.) Will is just sick and tired of potatoes, and their mushy, grainy texture. He’s just about to make up some excuse about not feeling hungry and maybe having an early night, when there’s a loud, sharp knock at the door. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you expecting anyone? Because I’m not,” he asks Anna. </p><p> </p><p>She shakes her head. “No, not tonight. Mary Warwick did say that she was going to bring over an extra loaf of bread that she made, but that wasn’t supposed to be until tomorrow, and she’s probably busy with her own supper right now.” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s probably just one of those kids from down the lane causing trouble again,” Will says, standing up from the table with a sigh. “I’ll get it.” </p><p> </p><p>(He’s barely even fifty, yet even the simplest physical tasks seem to leave his body aching and heart racing these days.) </p><p> </p><p>Opening the door is a swift, methodical task, turning the locks one by one until he hears the little click. There’s a man on the other side, stray locks of hair plastered to the side of his head in the rain. Will doesn’t recognize him, he’s not their usual postman, a kindly old soul by the name of Mr. Milton. This one must be new. </p><p> </p><p>“Telegram for you Mr. Schofield,” he says, handing it over to Will. </p><p> </p><p>“Thanks. Have a good evening.” </p><p> </p><p>“You too,” the courier says, before Will shuts the door behind him, opening the telegram. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> From Wing Commander H.S. Pierce  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Royal Air Force Station  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Maldon, Essex  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 15th January 1943 </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dear Mr. and Mrs. Schofield, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It is with my deepest sympathies that I must regret to inform you of sad news concerning your son, Sergeant John Schofield. His aircraft has been reported missing in action over France since 12th January. Your son’s effects have been collected and will be forwarded to you in due course through the Air Ministry. I must once again express my sympathy for you, and hope to soon report any news of your son, of which you will be promptly notified.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sincerely yours,  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Hugh S. Pierce  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Mr. W and Mrs. A Schofield  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Fordwich, Kent   </em>
</p><p> </p><p>His whole body trembles as he finishes reading the telegram and returns to the kitchen, heart pounding in his ears.</p><p> </p><p>Anna pushes away her plate, turning to look up at him. “Who was that at the door?” she asks, before noticing the telegram clutched in his hand. “And I wasn’t aware that they still delivered the post this late at night.” </p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t respond for a moment, too busy trying to fight the bile that’s quickly rising up inside of him, as he returns to his place at the table. “They don’t, unless it’s priority mail,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. </p><p> </p><p>“Will, honey, is something wrong? Did something happen to the girls? Jack? Please tell me,” she says, reaching across the table to take hold of his shaking, sweating, hand. “You’re scaring me.”</p><p> </p><p>He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to regain some sense of composure before facing his wife. But when the words do come, he can barely choke them out, the short staccato of his youngest child’s name hitching in his throat. “It’s Jack.” </p><p> </p><p>Anna takes in a sharp breath at that, all the color draining out of her face. “Oh god, oh god, oh god,” she repeats to herself in a tone that’s barely audible, snatching the offending paper out of his hands and beginning to read it for herself, as if that would change the bold, black words written there. </p><p> </p><p>The world has gone all fuzzy around the edges, Will’s vision going in and out of focus. It’s only then does he realize that he's crying, tears leaving dark marks on the pale wood of the table. He digs his nails into his palms until he draws blood, trying to bring his mind of focus on anything else, anything other than the scene currently playing out before him. Will had failed to save Tom Blake’s life twenty six long years ago, and now he has failed again, to save the life of his only son, a baby born so sick and weak he wasn’t expected to live out the month. A boy who had defied the odds and <em> survived </em>, only to become the very thing that Will had never wanted him to be. </p><p> </p><p>(“But Dad, all of the other boys are signing up too. Isn’t it worth it to be a part of something greater than yourself? I don’t care what you and Mum say, I’m going in the morning, and you can’t stop me.”)</p><p> </p><p>Will pictures his son’s gravestone, and the words that would be written there, a thin dash all that remained of every little moment of a life cut too short. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> John “Jack” Edward Schofield  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> April 6, 1923-January 12, 1943 </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Beloved son, brother, and friend  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He’s reminded then of the ending of <em> The Hobbit, </em>and the way that Fili and Kili had fallen defending their uncle, who had still perished despite their efforts. </p><p> </p><p><em> You were never supposed to die for me, for </em> us, Will thinks. <em> You were supposed to laugh, to find love, to feel the warmth of a fire on a winter’s night, to hold your own son in your arms one day. Not to die at nineteen in some foreign farm field.  </em></p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t know how long he sits at the table long after Anna has gone to bed, the telegram crushed tightly in one bleeding hand. </p><p>*</p><p>The next week passes in a blur. You wake up, eat a tasteless breakfast, go down to the newspaper office tying out ads for everything from oatmeal to school supplies, eat a tasteless lunch, type some more, go home, listen to the radio or read, eat a tasteless supper, read some more, sleep on and off until either the nightmares or the faint morning light peeking through the curtains wake you, and then repeat, repeat, repeat. </p><p> </p><p>A fog seems to have fallen over everything, and Will drifts through time in a daze, nothing around him seeming quite solid or real. </p><p> </p><p>(On Monday, after almost six hundred days, the blockade around Leningrad breaks, and the siege finally begins to lift.)</p><p> </p><p>The very air seems harsher and colder, and not even Anna’s warm touch brings him any comfort. </p><p> </p><p>(On Tuesday, Jack’s things arrive in the post, and Will lingers over all of them, especially the tiny family portrait tucked into the pocket of one of his shirts, the one that he hadn’t even noticed was missing,  that his son must’ve nicked on his way out.) </p><p> </p><p>Will takes it out of its hiding place, and holds it up to the light, the frozen faces of the people that he loves most in the world staring back at him. Anna, dressed in her Sunday best, one hand tight around his own, and the other around Clara. Maud and Flora, looking almost like twins with the matching light waves of their hair, and warm dark eyes. And finally Jack, still only seventeen, but already almost as tall as his father, peering back at him with a smug little half smile. </p><p> </p><p>(On Wednesday, the Germans bomb London again, one hitting a school, and killing forty one.) </p><p> </p><p>He keeps misaligning the typewriter ribbon when he works, and the editor keeps yelling at him, but he’s not phased, his senses too faded and dull to care that much anymore. </p><p> </p><p>(On Thursday, he writes to the girls, trying to relate the news of their brother in the gentlest manner he can.) </p><p> </p><p>His hands shake, and the letters blend into one another, but he finally finishes after almost two hours. </p><p> </p><p>(And on Friday, the courier is once again knocking at their door.)</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em> From Wing Commander H.S. Pierce  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Royal Air Force Station  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Maldon, Essex  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 22nd January 1943 </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dear Mr. and Mrs. Schofield, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Your son has been found, severely wounded but alive, and will be sent back to England within the next few days.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sincerely yours,  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Hugh S. Pierce  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Mr. W and Mrs. A Schofield  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Fordwich, Kent   </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Anna falls sobbing into his arms, Will quietly stroking the tangled locks of her unwashed hair.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>(But the son he meets at the train station isn’t the one that he left behind. The man that he tearfully embraces is different, and it’s not just because of the empty right sleeve, or the way that every step he takes seems to pain him.)</p><p> </p><p>All the gentleness in his son’s face is gone, leaving no trace of the innocent boy scared of dogs and deep water, who had cried for hours when Will had accidentally run over a rabbit while driving. There’s a hardness around that face now, something sharp, cold, and almost dangerous, like a wild animal caged in some neglected corner of the zoo. </p><p> </p><p>It’s the difference in Jack’s eyes that haunts him the most though. Yes, they’re still the same bright grey blue that he’s inherited from Will, but there’s no glimmer behind them anymore, especially when he smiles. If he even smiles at all that is; Jack’s lazy, cheeky, grin (the same one that he had watched play over Tom’s face hundreds of times over) that had once come as easily as the afternoon rain, is now rarer with every day that passes. There’s a hollowness in the man his son has become, and whenever Will looks at him, Jack’s eyes never seem to correctly focus, his glance always skimming just beyond his father  into the depths of some Stygian darkness that only he can see. </p><p> </p><p>Will knows that look well, he’d seen it on the faces of so many boys back in the war. They had called it shell shock then, taking what had once been happy, lively, young men <em> (boys) </em>and transforming  them into mere shadows of their former selves, empty eyed phantoms taking the place of what was once a companion, a friend, someone who lent you his gloves when you lost yours, or sang oh so sweetly to comfort your men, even on the darkest of nights. </p><p> </p><p>(Tom quietly singing along in a shaky, off key tenor, faint moonlight casting strange shadows on his face. Will’s hands longing for a pencil to capture this moment forever in time, to preserve the soft curve of Tom’s cheek, the harder lines of his jaw. But he’s never been an artist, that was always Tom’s forte. He would rather stick to words.)</p><p> </p><p>Those were the lucky ones, the ones who were still able to keep some part of themselves, however small. Or even luckier still,  the small minority who were sent back home to good old Blighty, but with minds and sometimes even bodies shattered beyond repair, and then twisted and built back together again into one of those haunted, broken things that barely even resembled a man anymore. And those were the lucky ones. </p><p> </p><p><em> (keep the home fires burning, while your hearts are yearning. though your lads are far away, they dream of home </em>.)</p><p> </p><p>Others, however, were less fortunate, and Will remembers the tragic tale of baby faced Billy Abbott from Dover. Billy, who couldn’t have been any older than seventeen, and who had been  tried and executed for cowardice on a warm summer morning for the crime of  being too broken to fire his rifle anymore. He had wept as the blindfold had been placed over his eyes, the salty tears dripping down his smooth cheeks glistening in the sun. And then the sharp cry of “fire!” had rung out through the haze of the dawn, leaving Billy’s limp form slumped on the ground, a dark stain spreading down the front of his trousers. </p><p> </p><p>(<em> there’s a silver lining, through the dark clouds shining, turn the dark cloud inside out, ‘till the boys come home.) </em></p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Historical notes:<br/>1. All dates in this chapter match up to actual events that happened in January 1943</p><p>2. The condolences letter is based off of a real one that I found in the BBC archives, with some details changed as needed</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which there is reflection on things lost </p><p>Chapter title from the poem "The Dead (III)" by Rupert Brooke</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Spring 1945</b>
</p><p>In May, the war in Europe finally ends, and Will twirls Anna around the kitchen, her smile brighter than he’s seen it in years. The parties last all night, joyful shouts and laughter from all over the village echoing in his ears. Everything is fresh and bright and beautiful and new. Everything that is, except for the shadow in the narrow bed upstairs that’s taken the place of what used to be his loving, gentle, son. </p><p> </p><p>Sometimes the shadow will rise from bed and sit on the stairs, silently watching Will go about his day, with pale eyes rimmed with dark circles. The shadow never speaks, just sits there in an old pair of worn pajamas for hours upon hours, only ever rising occasionally for food or rest. Will tries to start a conversation once, gently sitting down on the step below, but the shadow shrinks away from him, turning to go back upstairs.</p><p> </p><p>(Months pass before he gathers the strength to confront the shadow on the stairs again, and this time the shadow stays for the briefest of moments, before seeming to retreat back into the dark places inside of his head) </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <b>Autumn 1948</b>
</p><p>September arrives in all of its fading, golden, glory, and Will watches Flora both turn thirty four and welcome another child. The baby is a boy, much to Nell’s dismay, who’d hoped for a sister after all those long, lonely years of being an only child. Peter is born on a warm Friday night, and although the boy was an accident, as Flora later tells her father, he is much beloved by his parents and sister. </p><p> </p><p>(The shadow on the stairs, however, seems to be slipping further and further out of reach, despite his and Anna’s best efforts)</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Winter 1951</b>
</p><p>And then Christmas, and all of the quiet peace of winter and the warmth of family. There’s a new sweater from Maud, and chocolates from Anna. After the presents have all been opened and a crackling fire having been started in the hearth, he reads <em> The Hobbit </em>to Nell and Tommy for what feels like the fiftieth time. They’re plenty old enough to read it on their own now, but Will takes comfort in the familiar tradition, and the way that the three of them can disappear from the real world, if only for a while. </p><p> </p><p>(The shadow only provides him with a single wan smile all day, but in that moment, it’s more than enough)</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Summer 1954</b>
</p><p>Will is out on a leisurely afternoon stroll with his wife when he sees it, sitting in the bookstore window. He finds himself inexplicably drawn to the thick white book with its contrasting cover illustrations, as with a moth to a flame. <em> The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien, </em>it proclaims, in the same black lettering that he knows so well.</p><p> </p><p>“What is it?” asks Anna, only then making him realize that his face is pressed against the window, staring at the book with a glassy eyed look on his face. </p><p> </p><p>“Remember that hobbit book that Nell and Tommy love so much? Well, it seems like the author’s finally put out a new book after all these years.” </p><p> </p><p>“Nell’s birthday <em> is </em>coming up next week,” says Anna. “I think if you bought it for her she would be beyond thrilled.” </p><p> </p><p>Will smiles at her as they enter the bookshop. “I was thinking the same thing.” </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Spring 1955</b>
</p><p>Will and his eldest daughter sit in the muddy grass in front of the house, watching Nell clamber up the cherry tree. The tree is in full bloom now, the occasional pink blossom falling onto his granddaughter’s hair and becoming stuck in it, a sharp contrast against her messy, dark waves. At sixteen, she’s a bit too old to be doing things like climbing trees, and running wild through the fields behind the house, but that’s never been able to, and still doesn’t stop her. She’s still the sweet, quiet girl he’s always known, but has a fierce, adventurous streak that runs strongly through her. </p><p> </p><p>His whole family is gathered here at the old house today, as Easter has once again come around. The afternoon is warm and bright, almost picturesque, with a clear blue sky full of fluffy white clouds. Anna, Flora, and Clara are inside, preparing a lavish supper and piles upon piles of desserts full of sugar and butter, which they are finally able to do now, with the end of rationing the summer before. Through the open door, Will can see little Peter running his toy train over the floorboards of the kitchen, weaving it in and out through the table legs, trying not to get in the way of all the cooking and baking. The rich, familiar smell of cooking lamb wafts out into the yard, both Nell and Maud inhaling it deeply.</p><p> </p><p>Will buries his nose in the sleeve of his shirt instead. Even after all these years, the scent of cooking meat hasn’t stopped turning his stomach, bringing to mind only images of Écoust, and the night that still plays in his mind over and over and over again. </p><p> </p><p>(It isn’t until you find yourself vomiting when Anna makes roast beef for the first time after you return home from war, do you realize how much the scent reminds you of burning human flesh)</p><p> </p><p>Maud must have noticed his pained expression, because she presses her lips together in a concerned frown. “Dad, you alright?” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m fine, it’s nothing. It’s just that I love you, and I don’t want you fussing over me all the time,” he says, pulling her into a hug. </p><p> </p><p>“And I love you too.”</p><p> </p><p>“Your mother already does enough worrying for both of us.” </p><p> </p><p>She lets out a small chuckle at this, leaning into his touch. Even after all this time, and the fact that she’s now a grown woman with a family of her own, Maud is still, and always will be, his precious little girl. </p><p> </p><p>He remembers the way that she had clung to him in the train station before he had left for France, her tears leaving dark stains on his jacket, murmuring “don’t go, don’t go” over and over again. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll be back before you know it,” he’d said to her. “Listen to your mummy and be nice to your sister while I’m gone. Can you do that for me?” </p><p> </p><p>She nodded shakily, her nose dripping. “Now sing the song.” </p><p> </p><p>“Alright. But first I need to wipe your nose,” he said, carefully maneuvering himself to take his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiping her nose with it. “Better now?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” she said, and Will held her close, softly singing. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> They went to sea in a sieve, they did. In a sieve they went to sea…” </em></p><p> </p><p>When the song was over, he reluctantly put down his daughter, returning over to where Anna stood, baby Flora next to her in the pram, her own eyes red rimmed and shining. His wife threw her arms around him, her face pressed into his chest. “Just—come back to us—please,” she said, her voice muffled from the thick wool, and putting something into his hands.</p><p> </p><p>He pulled  back a bit, lifting her chin to look her in the eyes. “Listen to me. I, William Theodore Schofield, hereby swear to you, Anna Elizabeth Marlowe Schofield, that there is <em> nothing </em>in this world that will keep me from coming back to you. I promise,” he said, before kissing her softly, and embracing her one last time. </p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t until he was on the train did he notice what she had given him. A small picture of her and the girls, <em> come back to us, </em> scribbled on the back in Anna’s own graceful hand. </p><p>*</p><p>Will’s pulled out of his memories by a cloud of cherry blossoms landing on his face. He looks up at the source of the blossoms to see Tommy perched on the branch above Nell, swinging his legs so the whole tree shakes. His prediction all those years ago has come true after all, his grandson has inherited his mother’s bold, wild, spirit, although in looks, he’s practically the spitting image of his father, except for the characteristic blue grey Schofield eyes. </p><p> </p><p>Out of his four children, only Clara and Jack have inherited those eyes, with Maud and Flora’s rich brown ones being passed down from Anna’s side of the family. </p><p> </p><p>And then there are the little things his grandson does, that remind him oh so much of his namesake, dead almost forty years now. The way he chews his lip when he’s nervous, the way he curls in on himself when he sleeps, and the way he can talk for hours upon hours about everything and nothing, cheerful enthusiasm never once waning. </p><p> </p><p>“Thomas, stop that this instant,” cries Maud, causing Will’s mischievous grandson to almost fall out of the tree. </p><p> </p><p>“What if I don’t want to stop?” replies the boy, grinning in a way that reminds Will so much of a different Tommy that his heart almost stops. </p><p> </p><p>“Then I’m going to go inside right now and tell your mother that you’re not to have any simnel cake after supper, and you and I both know how much you love it.” </p><p> </p><p>Nell mockingly gasps, and Tommy sticks out his tongue at her, still perched high up in the tree. But before either him or  his daughter can say anything further, Clara comes out of the house, yelling “Who’s hungry?” so loudly that the Prime Minister is probably holding his hands over his ears all the way in London. </p><p> </p><p>The children jump down from the tree at this, first Nell, with Tommy following close behind. Maud helps him up from where they’ve been sitting, grass stains all over the back of her dress, and his trousers as well probably. </p><p> </p><p>When the two of them enter the house, everyone else is already seated around the table, steaming platters of food almost covering the tablecloth. Flora had made that tablecloth in school years ago, the stitches rounding the edges with a clumsy, childish touch, but Anna displays it proudly anyway. He takes his seat where it’s always been (second chair on the left), Anna and Maud on either side of him. Will sits there in silence for a moment, just trying to take it all in. They’re all here tonight: his beautiful, loving wife; his girls and their husbands; Nell, Tommy, and little Peter; and then finally Jack, the silent shadow in the corner, who clumsily picks at his food with a hand that even after twelve years, never seems to be doing exactly what it’s supposed to. </p><p> </p><p>(Flora skips him as she dishes out the lamb, and it’s not until everyone else has been served does he notice that she’s left Jack’s plate empty as well)</p><p> </p><p>Supper is mostly a pleasant, comforting affair. Nobody’s plate is ever empty, and the conversation flows as easily and cheerily as water over rocks. Nell is all a flutter about starting her final year of school in September, and begs her mother that she be allowed to attend university after that. Out of the corner of his eye, Will can see Flora smiling softly at her daughter. <em> Why shouldn’t a bright young woman go to university? </em> he muses. <em> In this modern age, it feels like anything is possible nowadays.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Meanwhile, on the other side of the table, Peter and Tommy, having finished their food, have resorted to kicking each other under the table. Will clears his throat loudly, and Clara and Flora both turn to their sons, identical cold looks in their eyes. </p><p> </p><p>“This is the second time today I’ve had to scold you,” he tells Tommy. “If I have to do it again, there will be no dessert and you’re going to have to go to bed when Peter does.” </p><p> </p><p>“And Peter,” says Clara. “Don’t think I didn’t see you kicking your cousin too.” </p><p> </p><p>The boys both blush at this, trying not to meet the eyes of the bothersome adults. Nell smiles, casually leaning back in her chair. </p><p> </p><p>“We can even read more of <em> The Two Towers </em>after dessert too if you behave yourselves,” says Will. </p><p> </p><p>All three of the children perk up at this. Ever since that first long ago Christmas after he and Nell had finished reading <em> The Hobbit </em> for the first time, it’s been a Schofield family tradition to read a Tolkien book aloud at family gatherings, or just whenever a grandchild or two are there with him. He and the children have made their way through <em> The Fellowship of the Ring </em> over these past few months, after he had bought it for his granddaughter for her birthday, and now they are well on their way through <em> The Two Towers.  </em></p><p> </p><p>He clearly remembers the day it had appeared in the bookshop window, on a drizzly, cold morning the previous autumn. The eleventh of November to be exact, a day that passes with difficulty every year, wrapping Will in a somber, grey cloud. Thirty six years since Armistice Day, thirty six years and three days since Joseph Blake’s death, and thirty seven years, seven months, and five days since Tom’s. </p><p> </p><p>It’s moments like this where Tom’s absence pains him the most, and all of the wonderful, beautiful things that he never grew old enough to see. Tom, who laughed just a little too hard at the strangest things. Tom, who would’ve adored hobbits. Tom, who died for exactly twenty years, nine months, and twenty one days of peace before guns around the world were once again loaded and fired. He and so many others had had their lives taken from them for nothing, lives that had been barely lived before being cut tragically short. </p><p> </p><p>Will had then rushed inside the shop as fast as he could, despite the fact that his old legs were no longer able to keep him as steady as before, to purchase the book and take it home with him. And take it home he had, delighting in the look on Nell’s face the next time that she’d visited. </p><p> </p><p>He and Nell, along with Tommy and Peter, had torn through almost the entire first half of the book that day, following the scattered members of the fellowship along their adventures, and Sam and Frodo’s quest to destroy the ring. The four of them have read through most of the second part in the months since then, and now the end is rapidly approaching. </p><p> </p><p>So after the dishes have been cleared and the desserts eaten, Will once again settles down in the familiar red armchair to read, the children gathered at his feet. It isn’t until he looks up from the page for a moment, that he notices the shadow standing in the doorway, eyes focused on his father, but not really seeing. </p><p> </p><p>Will turns the page, finding himself in Middle Earth once again. While Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, and the rest of the fellowship fight alongside the people of Rohan against Sauron’s armies, Frodo and Sam have found themselves in a different fight against the monstrous Shelob. </p><p>*</p><p>
  <em> From your lonely vigil in the doorway, you see your father’s breath catch in his throat, as Sam begs Frodo to wake up after the attack from Shelob. Your heart is pounding in your chest, your head swimming, as you feel yourself being unrooted from the earth and pulled back to a bitterly cold day winter’s day long ago, when your body and your heart were still whole  </em>
</p><p>*</p><p>
  <em> Your copilot leans against the plane, cigarette clamped between his teeth. You find your gaze lingering on him again, but you can’t seem to help yourself. Felix “Give ‘Em Hell” Ellison is what the girls back home would call ‘a dreamboat’, all artfully tousled blond curls and eyes so deep and dark you could drown yourself in them, if it only meant the two of you becoming closer to one.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Want one?” he says, holding out the packet of Lucky Strikes to you, and you accept, taking your place beside him. He smiles, two little perfect dimples forming at the corners of his mouth, the clouds of his breath mingling with the smoke.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em>You’ve been told that loving like this is a sin, but if sin it is, then Felix is the most beautiful form of hell. You want him, you want </em>all <em>of him. You want clear, bright mornings, the air so cold it burns your lungs, but by god, you feel so </em>alive. <em>You want</em> <em>boisterous, youthful laugher, hands clasped around a mug of cheap beer that tastes like the time your sister tricked you into eating mud, but you don’t care, because you’re here, and you’re whole, and your heart still beats loud and true, and so what if this is your last day on earth, because there’s a beautiful boy with his arm thrown around your shoulders who means more to you than a sunrise in midwinter, and for now that’s enough. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Ready?” you ask, grinding the cigarette out beneath the heel of your boot, and climbing into the cockpit.   </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “As I’ll ever be,” he responds, taking the place beside you, in a smooth, fluid motion that seems to come as naturally to him as breathing. “Hey there girl, you miss me?” Felix says then, gently patting the plane’s interior.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You fumble with your seatbelt, trying to make sure that everything is in place before you take off. Your whole body trembles, and you feel as if your stomach is full of live wires, the way it always does before a mission.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Here, let me help you with that.” He’s already strapped himself in, and now he reaches over to your shaking hands to do the same thing to you. Felix’s fingers are warm on your body, and his touch is light.   </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Thanks,” you say, your hands moving over everything one last time, checking that it's all correct and ready to go. The movements are almost automatic at this point, you’ve gone through them hundreds—no—thousands of times before. “Let’s go.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> You’ve never told Felix, but your favorite part of flying has always been lifting off. The thrill of speeding down the runway, faster, faster, </em> faster, <em> before your stomach drops and you’re in the sky, surrounded by nothing but grey clouds above and green fields below.  </em></p><p> </p><p>*</p><p>
  <em> The old scars down your side and the place where your arm used to be ache at the memories.  Fragments of things hiding in the deepest recesses of your mind, things that only come out during the darkest of nights, when you reach for the whiskey and the little box of pills that you keep hidden under your bed, away from the prying eyes of your father, who you’ve been living with since the war turned you into something even you don’t recognize anymore.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> (the father who worries about you too much, who says you should eat more, you’re too thin, but the food just turns to ashes in your mouth) </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The choppy grey waters of the channel, seething and frothing in the wind like some storybook beast. The German pilot who wasn’t supposed to be there, and the scrape of metal on metal. The smoldering remains from the factory you’ve bombed just a few moments before. Felix grabbing your arm, his nails digging into the cloth of your jacket. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> (the father who didn’t see you watching him hide all the sketchbooks you weren’t able to burn)  </em>
</p><p>*</p><p>
  <em> And then you’re tumbling out of the sky like a baby bird, losing all sense of time and place, Your plane falls for what feels like hours, until  you finally hit the ground with a hard, solid, thud that seems to shake your very bones. The first thing you’re aware of is pain, hot and sharp, lancing up the right side of your body. Your arm is stuck. That’s the second thing, crushed underneath a twisted pile of wood and metal.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Something is burning. That’s the third thing. An acrid stench of diesel that lingers in the back of your throat as you attempt to loosen the straps holding you in place with the clumsy fingers of your left hand. Every little movement sends new waves of pain up your still stuck  right arm, which sticks out at an angle that you know isn’t how an arm is supposed to look.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> There’s blood everywhere. That’s the fourth thing, but how much of it is yours and how much of it belongs to Felix, you’re not sure. Your eyes dart over to your navigator, who’s slumped over in his seat, eyes closed, bleeding profusely from a large gash near his hairline, more blood covering the front of his flight jacket.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> As gently as you can, you place your hand next to his face, feeling his warm breath tickle your fingers. He’s still alive then; a good sign, but the bleeding is showing no signs of slowing, and every breath seems shallower than the last.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You take a breath, trying to slow your racing thoughts and determine your course of action, but your heart won’t stop pounding, and your head feels like it’s full of sludge.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Get yourself unstuck. Save Felix. Find help. Get yourself unstuck. Save Felix. Find help.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> You repeat the words to yourself over and over like a prayer, first silently, and then out loud, in the hope that maybe someone, </em> anyone <em> , will hear.  You’re no medic, but from a quick observation it’s clear that out of the two of you, his wounds are the ones that require immediate attention. A right arm you can deal without, chests are more difficult. The radio is broken, reduced to a mere hunk of metal but there has to be help somewhere, you think. There has to be.  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Carefully, you brace yourself against your seat and try to pull out your arm, moving as much debris out of the way as you can with the other. You repeat this until you’re free, black spots swimming across your vision from the pain. It hurts, it hurts so damn much, and you lean back in your seat for a moment, the shattered remains of your right arm dangling uselessly at your side.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> (It’s not until you wake up in the hospital missing both a right arm and the boy who burned through your life like a raging bonfire and ask for a pencil and paper, do you realize how much it aches that you’ll never draw again, never paint again, never truly feel </em> full <em> again, </em> alive <em> again. An essential part of you is missing, a hole that’s been carved out of your heart, and you have nothing to fill it with but your anger and your sorrow)  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Your head swims as you stand up the best you can, climbing out of the cockpit and onto the ground below. Night is quickly gathering, and the sky that has been both your lover and your  tormentor seems practically ablaze, awash with deep reds, yellows, and inky dark blues. You stumble through the grass to the other side of the remnants of your plane, where your copilot still sits.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Scho. Your arm. It’s bleeding,” comes a faint voice, almost a groan, from the navigator’s seat. Felix’s eyes are half open, golden curls matted to his head with dried blood.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Shh, shhh, don’t worry about me,” you say, cradling his body the best you can with your good arm. “I’m going to get you to someplace safe, but you need to save your energy for me, alright?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Don’t tell me any of that ‘you’re safe’ bullshit,” he replies hoarsely. “There’s a letter sewn into the inside of my jacket—” He coughs, a wet, rattling sound from deep inside his lungs. “For my mum. Give it to her—please. After I’m gone. Tell her I’m sorry.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Your vision’s gone all blurry, eyes filling with hot tears. “Sorry for what, Felix? Sorry for what? You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He doesn’t reply, merely reaching up a hand to gently touch your cheek, before it falls back down again, his strength drained.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Your best friend (the boy you love) is dying in your arms (your usable one that is. the other one is just a mangled lump of sinew and bone) and there’s nothing in this world that you can do about it. His breathing is growing more ragged now, blood pooling up around your fingers as you try to staunch the gaping hole in his chest, but it’s not enough, it’s </em> never <em> enough.  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I love you,” you say, your voice thick with tears, the three little words tumbling out of your mouth before you have a chance to hold them back.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Felix gazes up at you, smiling, as the hummingbird flutter of his heartbeat goes silent beneath your bloody fingertips.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> (you would burn eternally to hear his laugh one more time, but that doesn’t mean much, you knew your soul was damned the moment fate first intertwined your life with his)  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p>Once the book is over and done, Will notices that the shadow in the doorway is still there, the tears in his eyes a perfect mirror of the ones in Will’s own. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm sorry *honks clown nose*</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. the last post</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which we come to the end of things</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Mild geographical license was taken in the making of this chapter, although both Scarborough and Rothbury Street are real places</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Winter 1943</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You can smell the brine of the harbor before you see it, a heady, salty scent that lingers on your clothes and in your hair. The north doesn’t look like how you expected it, all leaden grey skies and a sea to match, the screeching of the gulls swept away by the mournful cry of the wind. The sea, much like the sky, is a fickle lover, but you would throw yourself headlong into her embrace all the same.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “My Da was a fisherman,” Felix had told you once. “Lost at sea when I was nine though, haven’t seen ‘im since.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You had thought back to your own father then, and the way he had begged and pleaded with you for hours not to go to war. You had ignored him of course, your heart fixed, and had left for the station as soon as you were able, grabbing an old family portrait on your way out the door. The station had been packed that day, full of families and sweethearts reluctantly bidding their loved ones farewell. Everyone had someone, it seemed. Everyone that was, but you, standing lonely in the corner picking at a fingernail, receiving no last tearful goodbyes from your parents and sisters.  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em> You walk up and down the waterfront until your feet ache, trying to gather your thoughts before paying a visit to the address listed on the bloodstained envelope in your hand. It’s almost engraved in your memory now, given the amount of times you’ve read the words written there.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Ms. Grace Ellison </p><p>12 Rothbury Street </p><p>Scarborough</p><p>North Yorkshire </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Although the day is still quite young, the shops along the harbor are beginning to open for the day. You stop outside of a chippy, where a young woman is wiping the night’s grime off the front windows.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Do you know where Rothbury Street is?” you ask, voice trembling.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> She turns, hair tangling around her face in the wind. “New around here aren’t ya?” she says. “It’s not far, just go up the road a little ways and then you’ll see it.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Thanks.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You don’t like the city, and you don’t like the north either. It’s too crowded, too cold,  too dirty, too loud, your thoughts practically drowned out by the roaring of cars and the scraps of conversations drifting out of restaurants and shops.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Felix however, had been able to wax poetic about the topic for hours. The way the sea smells on the first truly frigid day of winter, the wild beauty of the moors, full of blooming heather and the spiny leaves of the bracken. The calloused, leathery hands of the fisherman, rough voices calling out for another round down at the pub on warm summer nights. The ancient ruins of the castle, standing its long, lonely watch over the city for almost a millennium now.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> (“I used to go up there sometimes you know, just to be alone for a while, away from it all,” he’d said, lazily twirling a stray lock of hair around his fingers. “It’s so high up you can practically see America on a clear day.” He laughed. “Which isn’t too often.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You’d hmmed at that. “I’d like to go there one day I think, after the war. See New York, Hollywood maybe. You can come too if you want, we’re young and the world is wide.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’d like that.”) </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Rothbury Street is a crooked little lane that seems carved into the very land itself, all cozy little brick houses and mud covered gardens, the occasional stubborn winter flower peeking out here and there. Number Twelve is nothing special from the outside, with the same cobbled path leading up to the solid wooden door. But it was the home of the boy you love for all twenty short years of his life, years that he had filled with more laughter, dirty jokes, and long winded stories than you ever could’ve hoped to contain within yourself.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It should’ve been me, you think as you prepare to knock on the door. It should’ve been me.  </em>
</p><p>*</p><p>
  <em> A girl answers the door when you knock. The girl is waifish, thin, and looks to be around thirteen or fourteen years old, with a headful of blonde curls struggling to escape from her thick braid. She must be one of Felix’s sisters then, but whether it’s Tess or Winnie, you have no clue.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Does Grace Ellison live here?” you ask, a white knuckled grip on the thin envelope in your hand. Even just talking seems to take a monumental effort these days, and you have to force yourself to get each word out.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Yes, but she won’t want to see you, Mum’s had enough of other people’s pity. Who are you anyway?” she says, looking you up and down before her gaze seems to settle on your pinned up right sleeve.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “A friend. I was with your brother when he—” The words catch in your throat, settling there, and you can’t manage to spit them out no matter how hard you try. “He gave me a letter for your mum, and I thought she might want it.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Oi, Tess, who’s that at the door?” comes a voice from somewhere inside the house, before the girl has a chance to respond. The voice is young, masculine, and reminds you so much of the boy you love, that you find yourself choking back the tears quickly forming in your eyes.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “No one. Just some bloke who says he wants to talk to Mum. Says he knew Felix. He’s on his way out though.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Before you can say anything, there’s a pattering of footsteps from inside the house, and a boy appears in the doorway. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Felix. <em> No. Although they share the same messy blond curls and long lashed dark eyes, this boy is younger by a couple years, and much taller than his brother had been.  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You knew ‘im?” asks the boy, crossing his arms across his chest.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Yes,” you say. There’s something about Danny’s tone that bothers you, something harsh and interrogatory. “I won’t be long.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Tess glances at Danny from out of the corner of her eye, seemingly asking for his approval to let you into the house. “It’s alright,” he says to her. “Just let ‘im in.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The house is dark and cluttered, schoolbooks, coats, boots, and various papers strewn around the small front room, and practically covering the overstuffed sofa. A boxy radio stands in the corner of the room, another girl sitting on the floor next to it as it plays, who turns to her siblings as they lead you further into the house.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Can you lot be quiet?” asks the girl—who must be Winnie. “My show’s on, and mum’s resting upstairs.”  You recognize the show as ‘It’s That Man Again,’ a comedy about the daily happenings of the war, that you used to listen to as well, back in another life. When you were a son your parents could be proud of, instead of a useless torn up thing, broken both inside and out.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> (The parents who you know are missing you, but this is a stop that you promised yourself you would make first) </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Just ignore her. She hasn’t been herself since—“ says Tess, before quickly cutting herself off and shaking her head in apparent exasperation. The three of you walk past Winnie and up a rickety flight of stairs to a narrow corridor lined with three closed doors, one on the left and two on the right. Gently, Danny knocks on the door on the left. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Mum, there’s someone here to see you. I know you said no visitors, but I think you’ll want to see ‘im,” he says, before pushing open the door.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The room is as dark and claustrophobic as the rest of the house, with thick curtains drawn across a narrow window in the corner. In the gloom, you can just barely make out the bed and table that sit in the center of the room, and the pale, thin figure lying in it. A fading, sepia colored photograph of a smiling young woman holding the hand of a handsome, blond young man in uniform sits on the bedside table in an elaborate silver frame.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> But the Grace Ellison who gazes up at you softly bears little resemblance to the beauty in the photo. The passing of the years and grief have aged her, leaving grey streaks in her tangle of thick, dark curls, and lines around the corners of her eyes and mouth.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You open the letter, and hand it to her, only seeing the words written there once she’s set it aside.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Mum, Tess, Winnie, and Danny </p><p>If you’re reading this, I’m never coming home again. I’ve seen some of the other lads write letters to be given to their families in case of their deaths and I decided to do the same, even though it’s very unlikely. You can never really  be sure, you know? This is a war after all. Mum, please tell Tess, Winnie, and Danny how much I love them and how sorry I am for leaving them without an older brother, if you let them see this letter. Danny, the burden falls on your shoulders now, of all of the things that make up oldest brotherhood. Be proud, it’s a pretty exclusive club! I’m going to try and keep this brief because Pierce keeps yelling at me to turn out the light, but there’s so much I have to say to you. Tess and Winnie, please don’t cry too much for me. I never could’ve asked for two better little sisters, and I hope that wherever life leads you, it gives you the best. There are some chocolates hidden in my room that I bought while I was on leave and never ate, so take them please, they’re yours now. And Mum, dearest, dearest Mum, never forget how much I love you and please, please, whatever you do, don’t let Danny do what I did. Keep him home and keep him safe. This war will not last forever. There will be singing again.</p><p> </p><p>Your loving son and brother, always and forever,</p><p>Felix </p><p>*</p><p>
  <b>Autumn 1955</b>
</p><p> </p><p>For once, it’s not the nightmares that wake him in the early, dark hours of the morning, but the blaring of the telly. Beside him, Anna shifts slightly in her sleep, coverlet pulled up to almost beneath her chin. She’s always been a deep sleeper, even in the first days of their marriage, with a constant string of children to feed and nappies to change. </p><p> </p><p><em> Bloody kids, watching the telly in the middle of the night, </em>Will thinks, gently throwing aside the covers so as to not wake his wife, and climbing out of bed to the icy cold floor below. Flora and her husband are on holiday for the weekend for his birthday, and so she had asked her parents to watch Nell and Peter for a couple of days, a task to which they had readily agreed. He had then silently thanked whatever god might be listening that it was Flora, not Clara leaving her offspring in his care. Just thinking about Tommy, and the reckless energy that is bound to either kill him or land him in the history books one day, is enough to leave Will exhausted. </p><p> </p><p>Quickly, he shoves his feet into a worn out pair of slippers, and makes his way downstairs, making sure to be especially quiet as he passes Jack’s room. His son barely sleeps as it is, he doesn’t need to be woken up in the middle of the night by his father putting Nell and Peter back to bed. The kitchen is shrouded in darkness, save for the faint beams of moonlight playing and chasing each other across the floor. Will slips around the table and chairs, and enters the front room, the faint outline of what at first glance looks to be Nell sitting on the sofa. </p><p> </p><p>But the shadowy, glassy eyed figure who sits curled up on the sofa in front of the telly isn’t one of his grandchildren. It’s Jack, who seems suddenly younger, more vulnerable, the hard lines of his face softening in the pale half light. Dark locks of uncombed hair fall into his eyes, and Will suppresses the urge to push them back and smooth them down, something he hasn’t done in over a decade. </p><p> </p><p>Carefully, he sits down on the sofa next to his son, letting himself sink into the cushions and the telly fade into the background. “Jack, it’s me. Come back to bed, you should try and get some sleep.”</p><p> </p><p>“Can’t,” he says, brushing away his father’s gentle concern with a shake of the head. </p><p> </p><p>Something about the words and the gesture is achingly familiar to Will, reminiscent of Anna’s own pleading, on the nights full of torn up limbs, bloodied uniforms, and sixteen year old boys turned old before their time. He had turned away from her touch, and the ghost of Tom Blake that seemed to linger in those warm hands and kind eyes. </p><p> </p><p>“Let’s just sit here for a while, and then maybe we’ll both be able to sleep.” </p><p> </p><p>The two of them sit in silence for a while, Will letting his mind drift back to those endless, painful nights staying up like this with his son after he had  returned from war, missing both an arm and all of his gentle softness. Jack doesn’t move to leave, merely tucking his legs up to his chest, making himself into a small, tight ball as far away from Will as he can.</p><p> </p><p>A film is playing, one of those fast paced dramas that has become popular in recent years, full of dashing heroes and narrow escapes. Will isn’t paying much attention to it, only vaguely aware that it follows the antics of a daring young pilot during the war. He’s just about to give up and go back upstairs when he hears Jack let out a noise that sounds like a combination of a whimper and a gasp, his eyes fixed on the film. </p><p> </p><p>On screen the daring young pilot appears to be fatally wounded in a horrific crash, his plane reduced to nothing but broken pieces of metal, leaving his wife to mourn as the credits begin to play. </p><p> </p><p>“Jack? What is it? What’s wrong?” asks Will, in the careful, loving tone that he’s worked so hard to perfect over the years. </p><p> </p><p>His son is silent for a moment, brushing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes and taking in a shaky breath. “It wasn’t supposed to be like that,” he says quietly, more to himself than to Will. “Supposed to be just us. Just me and him, without any of those <em> blasted </em>Germans.” </p><p> </p><p><em> Without any of those blasted Germans, </em> Will repeats to himself. <em> It’s still true, even after all these years. </em>“It’s alright. You can tell me.” </p><p> </p><p>“There was another pilot. A German. He—” Jack stops, biting down on his lip until little droplets of blood begin to well up there. “We crashed. Badly. You know what happened to me, but Felix—. I had him in my arms but—” He takes a shaky breath. “They didn’t find me for days.”</p><p> </p><p>Will doesn’t know what to say, his heart pounding, scraps of Jack’s words nestling themselves inside his head. Pilot who wasn’t supposed to be there. Couldn’t save him. Died in my arms. Tom and Felix, and the lives they were never able to live, the men they never grew old enough to become. </p><p> </p><p>He swallows hard, trying to collect his racing thoughts. “It happened to me too,” he says finally. “In the war. We had a job, a message to deliver to call off the attack before thousands were killed.”</p><p> </p><p>Jack’s looking at him intently now, his knees pressed up against Will’s own, his jaw tightly clenched. </p><p> </p><p>“I think you know the rest,” he says, before finally, <em> finally </em>letting the tears run down his cheeks and fall onto Jack’s hair as he holds his son close for the first time in almost twenty years.</p><p> </p><p>An image springs to mind then, of Frodo and Sam struggling to make their way up Mount Doom, the loyal gardener carrying his friend up the rocky, cragged slopes. <em> ‘I can’t carry it for you, but I can carry you and it as well. So up you get! Come on Mr. Frodo dear.’ </em></p><p> </p><p><em> I’ll meet you in the Shire one day Tom, </em> he thinks, stroking Jack’s hair in the dark. <em> Tea is at four, and I won’t be late. Just make sure to keep the light on for me there.  </em></p><p>*</p><p>
  <b>Winter 1917</b>
</p><p> </p><p><em> It’s cold. It’s so, so cold, the pounding rain soaking through his jacket and into his very bones. He pulls his hands into his sleeves, but it doesn’t do much good against the unrelenting damp. Will doesn’t remember the last time he truly felt dry, felt warm, felt </em> clean <em> .  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He’s been lucky compared to others though, who had been taken to the hospital with hands and feet reduced to nothing but useless lumps of blackened, rotting flesh.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em>The new Lance Corporal sits next to him in the dark, quietly humming to himself. </em>Blake. That’s his name<em>, Will thinks. </em>Tom Blake. <em>He’s round faced and light haired, with a cheerful smile that Will’s seen on so many other boys, only to slowly fade as the war broke them down more and more. Will recognizes the tune as ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary,’ which has become quite popular among the lads lately. The night is almost silent for once, save for the occasional snore, and the steady dripping of the rain. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> (he recalls a time when he smiled like that, but that time is long past) </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Blake has stopped humming, and abruptly jabs him in the side. “Scho, Scho, look what I got.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “What?” he says harshly, too tired for whatever Blake has decided to blabber on about tonight.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Whiskey. Want some?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Sure,” Will says, letting Blake pour some of it into his canteen. He doesn’t know where Blake has acquired said whiskey, but he doesn’t care. It warms him up, numbs the hurt inside him for a while, and that’s all that matters.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “And as the good book says, ‘Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die,’ Blake says, clinking his canteen against Will’s own. “Cheers, Scho.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Cheers” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The whiskey burns as it goes down, but this time it’s almost a holy ecstasy, the pain a reminder that tonight there’s a life that still belongs to him, even if the coming sunrise is the last one that he’ll ever see. </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Historical Notes <br/>1. It’s That Man Again was a real comedy radio show that aired from 1939-49 and was very popular during wartime </p><p>2. The movie that Will and Jack are watching is Angels One Five in case anyone is interested </p><p>This is literally the fastest I've ever written anything and I just wanted to thank all of you again for reading this story!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I hope that you enjoyed my own little love letter to the lost generation and their wonderful work! And if you want to find more of me I'm also on tumblr as @labelledamsansmerci</p></blockquote></div></div>
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